Play Cissy For Me
by the artful scribbler
Summary: NEW! Short, sexy Lumione. Polyjuice hijinks! Hermione has a hunch that Mr Lucius ArrogantBastard!Malfoy is up to his old dirty-dealing Ministry-manipulating tricks again. She takes advantage of an invite to the Malfoys' annual ball to do some detective work. But things do not go to plan. Not even remotely. Lucius/Hermione-disguised-as-Narcissa/then as herself. Rated M for mmmmmm...
1. Play Cissy For Me

_Hello folks! This is my very first smut-fic. Horray! *giggles nervously*  
__This story is dedicated to my lovely followers of Belonging To The Fog, because any chance of a sex scene is still so far away I decided to devise a little hot Lumione action to keep us all going in the meantime. Plus, I had a request for such. Who am I to deny such an excellent suggestion from one of my dear readers? Having said that, there is no actual affinity between the two stories, except the ship itself.  
__I'd really love some feedback on the style. I'm going for "elegantly drawn erotica-wp" rather than the usual "nasty, over-explicit pwp". And I solemnly swear to never, never use the words "splatter" or "gush." Because that's just icky. ...A final word of warning:__ if you're not an adult or you don't like sex scenes please do not read on. If you are and you do, I hope you enjoy this tender little morsel!_

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**PLAY CISSY FOR ME**

PART I

...

The plan had gone just swimmingly, up to the point the office door slammed open and the threshold was darkened by a very large, very forbidding silhouette.

_Oh god, _Hermione thought, _it's him. It's Lucius sodding Malfoy. Fuck fuck fuck. _And she had _really_ started to sweat.

"Narcissa, my dearest," the blond wizard drawled in a voice like brushed silk, sweeping elegantly through the dimly-lit chamber to join her. "What in the name of Salazar are you doing in here? Have we not a ball-room full of guests to attend?"

Her breath caught with relief. She had not been rumbled. Not yet. But she was elbow-deep in the top drawer of his office bureau, and she wasn't exactly sure how she was going to explain herself.

"Hello, Lucius," she said shakily, for he was always intimidating, even from a distance, and now – looming large from the shadows, devilishly handsome in his evening attire – he made her almost dizzy with fear. Fear ...and something else, which she couldn't quite name, and was in no hurry to, either. "I was just. Um. I was looking for..." – she swallowed nervously – "... something," she finished lamely.

She met his silver gaze in the gilt-framed mirror that hung above the bureau... and a deep crimson flush began from her neck and gradually spread over her face to the roots of her hair. _I bet SHE never blushes like this, _she thought wildly, wondering how it was possible that he could not see _her_ panic and confusion within his wife's tilting sapphire eyes.

Lucius's mouth was curving into a very slow, very disconcerting smile. He closed in behind her, reaching around to extract her arms from the bureau with his large jewelled hands. Immediately her senses were flooded by a heady combination of scents – sweet, expensive cologne, the slightly bitter fumes of fine wine and cigars, and a darker, sharper accent of emphatic masculinity. "You've got the wrong drawer, Narcissa," he growled in her ear, and his warm breath on her skin sent unbidden tingles all over her body. Gently he closed the top drawer, and just as gently he slid open the one below it. "I believe _these_ are what you're looking for, milady?"

_Oh my holy... ohhhh shit._ They were handcuffs. Actual handcuffs. _What kind of man keeps handcuffs in his office?_ She had no time to give the question much thought, because with one impossibly quick movement he had jerked both her arms behind her and cuffed her wrists – and that was when Hermione knew she was in deep, deep, deep trouble.

She simply froze. What could she say? _Terribly sorry, Mr Malfoy, there's been a bit of a mix up. I've actually violated every Ministry law in the book by stupefying and impersonating your wife, infiltrating your home, and breaking into your office to conduct an unlawful search for incriminating evidence against you. _A nauseating anxiety twisted her insides. He could have her arrested – there were several highly-decorated officers of the DMLE under this same roof at this very moment. She could lose everything: her job, her clean record, her very reputation. Or worse, he could blackmail her for the rest of her life... No! To confess was simply not an option. Then again, what the hell was going to happen to her if she _didn't_?

"On second thoughts," the tall wizard was murmuring, his arms snaking around her and pulling her tightly against him, "I think the madding crowds may look after themselves for an hour or so."

She could feel ..._him_ through her flimsy dress, an alarming hot rigidity pressing into her tailbone. Then he suddenly spun her around and half-lifted, half-shoved her onto the edge of the bureau's satiny top, pinning her in place with a hard thrust of his hips. Unable to maintain her balance with her hands cuffed behind her, she would have fallen backwards, but Lucius held her up with his right hand spanning the narrow of her back, his left supporting her nape beneath the sheet of her long smooth hair.

Hermione's heart thudded as his thumb caressed her throat. His hand was so large, it nearly encircled her entire neck. She could feel his gaze burning into her, but she could not – could _not_ – meet it. "I've got a headache," she blurted out desperately. "Maybe we – could – later –"

"Oh no, my dear, I'm not in the mood to entertain your capricious little games," he cut her off hoarsely, his mouth suddenly very close to hers. "...not tonight."

_Where the hell did I put my bag – my wand?_ she thought frantically. Then she remembered: she had left the little beaded clutch on his massive desk in the middle of the room, her wand stowed safely away inside. _Damn. _"But – but, ah, I want to ch-change into something special, L-Lucius," she stammered. "Why don't you meet me in the bedroom in ten mi–"

Her words were cut off again, this time by his mouth. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was demanding and probing and deep and hard and _hot_, and she had never, never been kissed like that before in her life. When he released her lips she was giddy and breathless, her pulse racing like a rabbit's. "Oh," she couldn't help gasping.

His weight shifted and she nearly balked when she felt his warm hand slide past her knee, pushing her dress up and up until it was no more than a wreath of bunched silk at the top of her thighs. She began to wriggle furiously against him. "Stop it, Lucius, please!" she hissed, "I don't feel like – _ahhh!_"

With a swift, artful movement of his hand, he had tugged aside the inadequate barrier of lace underwear with his fingers, and she yelped as he began to stroke his thumb up and down her exposed cleft._ MERLIN SAVE ME!_ She arced backwards, twisting against her restraints in helpless despair – no, helpless desperation – no, helpless _pleasure, _as he manoeuvred against her with subtle expertise, stooping down to catch her lips with his once more.

Clearly, he knew how to handle a woman. His touch was light and assured: no misguided prodding or painful jabs, simply caressing and insinuating, and ever-so-slowly applying pressure and depth until she was like wax in his hands, melting into an imperatively-building ecstasy, moaning against his mouth.

_No, no, this cannot be happening!_ Her brain was a jumbled mess, her rational thought had been hijacked by pure sensation, and there was nothing to do but yield to its sweet demands. _This can't be me, and – oh – oh – please tell me this is not Lucius Malfoy..._

"You little _vixen_..." Lucius's voice was a low rasp in her ear. "Who have you been thinking about, to make you so wet?" And with the most exquisite precision, he pinched her with his perfectly-manicured nails. She cried out, her whole body bucking with the unexpected sting, but he was already stroking it away, a wicked curve touching his mouth. "Hmm?" he continued darkly. "Was it one of your pitiful, fawning gallery lapdogs – or one of those tedious braggarts from the club?"

He withdrew his supporting arm and instantly she fell backwards, banging her head against the wall, her back arched awkwardly over her bound wrists – but she barely registered the discomfort, for he was applying both hands to her now, and she was emitting a series of mewling, panting cries...

He bent over her, his silver eyes locked on her face. "Tell me, Narcissa, who you're thinking about _now_."

"_YOU!_" she gasped out, "Oh – god – you – _you-ah-ahhhhh!_" A star-burst of pure ecstasy shattered over her, as her muscles clenched around fingers buried deeply inside her, and convulsed against others rubbing beautifully against her, and she had no idea who she was anymore, and she didn't care, and her whole world was dark and spinning and humming, and so was _she_...

When she finally opened her eyes (she hadn't realized she'd closed them) Lucius was gazing down at her, lynx-eyed and supremely triumphant, a self-satisfied smirk adorning his sharp features.

He pulled her up and off the bureau, holding her tightly against him until she gained her balance. She leaned limply against his broad expanse of chest, trying to harness her scattered thoughts into some semblance of rationality – but with little success. Surely this was all a dream. Surely she hadn't just succumbed to being pleasured by Lucius Malfoy, the man she detested above all others. _Oh, no, no, no..._

She straightened her trembling legs, and shook her tumbled hair out of her eyes. Her wrists were chafing, and her shoulder joints aching. "Will you unlock me now, please?" she croaked weakly.

Lucius regarded her with amusement. "And why," he murmured, "should I want to do that?"

She stared up at him, bewildered, and quailed under the intensity of his gaze. His irises were gleaming with a fiery liquidity, like molten silver, and he looked... hungry. Like a hungry predator cornering its prey. Then she realized parts of him were still pressing rigidly into her, just as hard and hot as before – and it dawned on her that they had only just completed the overture. The symphony was yet to begin.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry or scream or struggle, or just die. _What would Narcissa do?_ she wondered desperately. She took a steadying breath, and tried to assume an air of haughty disdain. "I am your wife, not one of your cheap harlots," she said as coldly as she could, cursing her quivering, shivering body. "And I _don't_ appreciate you treating me like one."

He wound his hand in her hair, tugging it back so she was forced to arch against him. There was an edginess to his smile now. "You know my harlots are _never_ cheap, my dear," he snarled softly. "And I will cease to treat you like one when you cease to behave like one."

_Who ARE these people?_ Hermione thought frantically, as Lucius began to haul her inexorably over to his huge desk. _What the hell kind of marriage do they have? _

She experienced a thrill of hope at the sight of her bag lying on the far corner of the desk. If only she could persuade him to free her wrists... "I think it high time we rejoined our guests," she persevered, her voice much too highly-pitched and thoroughly unconvincing. She could almost taste the futility of her words as she spoke them. "Really, Lucius, we ought to continue this later..."

He responded by shrugging off his robe, throwing it over the hard mahogany surface, then thrusting her face-down into it. The luxurious velvet was deep and warm and exuded an intoxicating, complex concentrate of his scent, making her head reel dizzily. The narrowness of her dress prevented him from parting her legs with his own, and she sensed rather than felt him reach into his waistcoat to extract his wand. "Divestio," he muttered, and suddenly she was aware of an intense feeling of vulnerability and exposure: her bare breasts squashed into the soft fabric, the warmth of his heavy hand between her shoulder blades, and the unbearably arousing sensation of expensive wool rubbing her thighs and pressing deliciously into the damp heat between her legs...

She watched helplessly as his right hand relinquished his wand, not two feet away from her. But would she even have snatched for it, if she could? She didn't actually know. In fact, it turned out she didn't know _anything_ about herself any more. Never in ten million years would she have imagined she would be stripped naked and bent over Lucius Malfoy's office desk, just about crying with anticipation of his touch...

She whimpered as he ran his palms over her hips and bottom. He was making shallow, teasing thrusts against her, and she found herself trying to propel her body back to meet them, to _feel_ him.

_I want him._ The truth broke over her like a bursting dam, overwhelming, incontrovertible, irrefutable. _I want him inside me._

As if reading her mind, there was a pause and Lucius's weight lifted momentarily off her. She quivered deliriously as she heard the clink of a buckle being unfastened, the creak of a leather belt loosening, the muted whir of a zip being unhurriedly opened. It made her almost swoon with frenzied, expectant desire.

Instinctively she raised and tilted herself in readiness for him, and she heard him growl softly in response. He grasped one of her knees and pushed it up onto the desk, exposing her even more, and then he used his fingers to splay open her folds. She gasped at the first searing contact of his heavy, engorged member as he slicked himself in her dampness, running the swollen head up and down her cleft, making her writhe and squirm.

But he had not quite finished torturing her. "What do you say, _Cissy_?" His voice was both taunting and tantalizing.

_Please. Please! PLEASE!_ "Please," she whispered faintly, panting.

"Please – what?"

"Please... um..." –_ Could she really say it? _- "Please f- f- "

He grasped a fistful of her hair and twisted her head back to meet his gaze. He loomed ascendantly over her, huge and menacing, like some avenging Saxon god. "Please – _what_?"

"Please f-f-fu-" – _Oh god, this was it, then_ – "-u-uck me..."

Lucius's mouth curved into a victorious, pitiless smile. "With _pleasure_, milady." And with a sudden, savage lunge, he sheathed himself fully inside her.

A scream tore from her mouth, a strangled cry of pain and pressure and stretched overfulness – he was too, too big – oh, god did it _hurt – _but it was a wonderful hurt, such as she had never experienced before, not even her first time, which had been all pain and zero wonder.

Lucius looked pleased with the conflicting expressions on her face, and he drew out slowly, his eyes still riveted to hers, his hands wrapped deeply in her hair. His second thrust was as brutal as his first, and again she cried out in an ecstasy of agony, or an agony of ecstasy, wondering just how she was going to take it, how her body – _or was it Narcissa's body?_ – was going to endure such an unrelenting battering without breaking into a thousand pieces...

Not only did she endure it, but somehow endurance turned into acquiescence, then acceptance... then absolute, helpless, incomprehensible _pleasure_...

For what seemed a suspended eternity he pounded into her at a measured, thudding pace, using her cuffed wrists for leverage and her long hair for control. The drag and the drive, the push and the pull, the fill and the void – to these undeniable forces she could only submit, and exult in the submission, no matter that he who unleashed them upon her was her greatest opponent and oldest foe. She could no longer think or understand, she could only _feel. _Him.

More than once he plastered himself heavily along her back to growl obscenities in her ear; more than once he pulled her roughly upwards to rove his hands over the soft flesh of her breasts, mercilessly pinching the sensitive tips until she was incoherently begging, though she didn't know for _what_.

At last the muscles in his thighs tensed and his steady thrusts accelerated and intensified to a ferociously-fast hammering. She was already emitting a high wailing noise, but it fragmented into broken cries as he reached down and applied two dexterous fingers to her parting, seeking out the small pulsating orb of over-stimulated nerves, manipulating her until she shuddered uncontrollably against him, sobbing rapturously, saturated by wave after wave of cresting and crashing ecstasy.

With a powerful shunt and a loud groan, Lucius climaxed into her throbbing passage, his essence spilling inside her, the thick viscosity slowing his final few strokes. He collapsed on top of her, panting heavily in her ear, his long hair falling about her like a snowy, silken shroud.

For a while they remained locked together, Hermione pinned down by Lucius's crushing weight, trying to catch her breath, her eyes wide and staring. She felt dazed, bruised, blissful and sated._ And well and truly fu-_

"My dear, that was most gratifying." Lucius's purring voice interrupted her thoughts, and she felt regret – actual regret – as he withdrew and lifted himself off her. "How delightfully responsive you were tonight... marvellously _vocal_... in fact, _not_ _at all_ yourself."

Her heart leaped into her throat at his subtly-accented words. _Did he suspect? Did he somehow ...know?_

Lucius picked up his wand and she heard him briefly murmur an unlocking spell. The cuffs sprang open and he removed them from her bruised wrists, then helped her to her feet. She dared not meet his eyes as he adjusted his clothing and cleaned his robe – though somehow she knew he was smiling, and that his smile was a many-times-magnified version of the smug, triumphant smirk she had seen there before.

He donned the velvet garment and moved leisurely over to the mirror, spending some moments using his wand to neaten his hair and re-starch his collar and neck-cloth, until he was once more as impeccable and immaculate as when he had first entered the chamber.

And then he simply left, stalking regally from the room, without a backwards glance.

Hermione leaned feebly against the desk, still breathless, in a kind of shocked trance. She was trembling from head to toe, inside and out. _What...the hell... just... happened? _

Perhaps she stood there for a few minutes, perhaps for a lifetime. She had completely lost her grip on all sense of time and reality. The chiming of a wall-clock finally snapped her out of her reverie. _Eleven o'clock, _she thought, and hurried over to the mirror. _Any second now..._

She watched, transfixed, as her porcelain-white skin took on a creamier tone, her flowing blonde tresses curled and darkened, her eyes resized and retinted, her doll-like mouth widened, her pretty pointed nose regained a more ordinary shape... and there she stood, her own familiar self once more...

...Only, she had the distinct feeling she would never, never _truly _recognize herself, ever again.

...

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_Thanks for reading! This vignette may be able to be extended to a three part piece if there is enough interest expressed. So if you would like to see some more, please make some encouraging noises! (I'm also open to suggestions about exactly how much chilli you like in your salsa, if you take my meaning.)_ _Ok, love you, bye-bye!_


	2. Head Over Heels in Hate With You

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed my first chapter! Thought you all might enjoy another little slice. This chapter is kind of... well, foreplay, shall we say, to the main event :) Looks like it will be at least a three-part piece after all. Special thanks to Storywriter831 who beta'd for me and so rightly reined in my propensity to angst. After all, this is a smut-fic, not a Greek tragedy. __The usual warnings apply. As always, JK Rowling owns the characters, I just make them do naughty things to each other. Enjoy!_

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PART II

Head Over Heels In Hate With You

...

Why, oh bloody why, had it been _him_, of all people?

If only it had been someone else – _anyone_ else. Anyone but Lucius bloody Malfoy.

Insufferable, intolerable, intolerant, insolent _pig_.

Death Eater. – Yes, he would always be a Death Eater to her, just as she would always be a Mudblood to him – to _all_ the hypocritical self-serving Pureblood supremacists still rife within the Ministry. Spouting rhetoric about "equality" and "progress" whilst still jealously guarding their Old Boy's Club, tooth and nail. She knew all too well what they thought of her being admitted into their ranks – he, most of all. He'd taken little trouble to hide his sentiments on the subject.

With a bitter pang she remembered overhearing his snide comments, after her appointment to the board six months earlier. "I see the DIMC is fulfilling its obligations to the Mixed Representation Act," she'd heard him remark to one of the officials as she passed them in the lobby, his silken voice edged with an elegant sneer. "How admirably _efficient_, killing two birds with one stone in the shape of Miss Granger. A muggle _and_ a female."

It had stung badly – perhaps _worse_ because of the element of potential truth behind his words. Why should the board trouble itself to appoint two minority delegates, when they could get away with one?

She was certain he'd intended for her to hear him, and she'd stopped in her tracks, turned to him, and bestowed on him her sweetest smile. "Such a great shame _you_ are not eligible for election, Malfoy," she'd said, in deliberately dulcet tones. "You could _definitely_ fill up a quota for wand-restricted, magic-reduced, advisory-only, former Death Eaters."

He'd looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled her right there and then, and she'd sashayed off with a rather triumphant skip in her step.

From then on it had been all-out war between them; she, flaunting her position over him at every opportunity, he using his influence to thwart her work at every turn. ...And she'd enjoyed it, their vicious sparring, the pitting of their incisive wits – most especially the heady sensation of power when she asserted her superiority over him, gleefully rubbing his supercilious nose in his diminished position and magical impotence. She could almost _taste_ his wrath_._

But then. Then.

It had happened.

One month ago today.

If only she hadn't... hadn't _loved_ it so much. If only she hadn't felt so damned satisfied... _completed_. Until that moment, the moment he bent her over his desk and thrust himself into her, she hadn't realized anything was missing from her life. She had thought she was happy. Well-rounded. A little sexually frustrated maybe, but nothing that couldn't be assuaged by a quiet moment in bed, with a certain acquisition from a Naughty Nymphs catalogue, and a choice Vibrato spell.

How wrong she'd been.

Oh, if he only knew the chaos he'd caused in her head, his own would probably explode with the swelling. – Night and day, asleep or awake, she was haunted by the memory of that night – of _him._ Pounding mercilessly into her. Stretching and filling her. Making her sob with helpless pleasure, crying out for him, again and again...

It was driving her to distraction. She was almost tempted to Obliviate herself, to remove the tormenting vision from her brain once and for all.

But she couldn't. The memory had become like an opiate to her – an incredible, indelible, guilty pleasure. One which she replayed nightly in her head, her fingers frantically rubbing herself into a desperate climax, until her brain was saturated with dopamine, her body flooded with endorphins, and she lay shuddering and panting in the darkness.

_Damn that blond bastard, _was her customary closing thought, before she dropped off to sleep.

And then dreamed of _him_.

…

Hermione threaded her way down the long Ministry corridors, avoiding eye-contact with all the other home-heading workers. She didn't stride anymore. She scurried. Furtively, surreptitiously, always on the look-out...

She saw him often, but she never let him see her – no, she made absolutely sure of that. Their paths could not help but cross frequently: the nature of their respective positions within the Ministry guaranteed it. But Hermione always managed to slip away if she glimpsed him sauntering down the corridors; or, if she found herself in danger of being accidentally cornered, she would quickly Disillusion herself until he had passed by.

_I simply MUST get that bigoted bastard out of my head,_ she thought as she hurried along, her eyes fixed on her feet_. I won't let that prick mess up my life. He's nothing to me – nothing. A dark wizard. A Death Eater. A Slytherin. A Pure-blood supremacist. A Malf –_

"Ooof!" She collided with something at once velvety and solid, ricocheting her backwards. She would have fallen if strong arms hadn't shot out to pull her back upright, and in that very second she knew – she just knew – knew beyond all doubt – _who_ it was.

_His_ touch, _his_ scent.

"Miss Granger." _His_ voice, drawling and elongating the syllables of her name.

"Ms," she corrected, immediately wrenching herself out of his odious, revolting, unbearable hands. _His skillful, supple, dexterous hands._ "Watch where you're going, Malfoy," she spat, her stomach churning with a sickening complexity of emotions. A month and a day ago, she would have held his gaze challengingly. Now, she avoided it at all costs.

"But I am watching, Miss Granger," Lucius replied in a maddeningly suave voice. "I'm watching _you_. You see, I've been looking for you."

_He had? ..._She gulped. There was a long, laden silence. Hermione stood, rooted to the spot, in an agony of indecision. She longed to look up into those gleaming, silver eyes. But she had the distinct feeling that if she did, the game would be entirely up. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she finally managed to rasp.

She heard him breathe leisurely in, leisurely out. "I want to _give_ something to you, Miss Granger," he said in a worryingly smug tone, "– or perhaps I should say, _return_ something to you."

He took a step towards her, deliberately breaching the barrier of space she had installed between them. Hermione fought to stand her ground, though her body seemed to be liquifying, her knees particularly. "I don't want anything from you, Malfoy," she hissed at him.

She made to push past him, but he quickly grasped her left wrist and jerked her tightly up against him. "I'm afraid I _must_ insist," Lucius growled softly. His tone was delicately dangerous, and – she couldn't help it – her eyes snapped up to connect with his.

At that moment, her heart seemed to lurch to a stop. She couldn't breathe.

_He knows!_ she thought wildly. It was there, in his eyes, etched in silver. _How can he know? How is it possible?_ ... Somehow she managed to tear her eyes away from his riveting gaze – but succeeded only to drop them as far down as his curving mouth. She swallowed rapidly and drily, several times. "What – what is it?" she croaked.

With the subtlest of manoeuvres he had her pressed against the stone wall, his arm resting next to her head, the long sleeve of his robes entirely concealing her from the hurrying passers-by. "That's for me to know, Miss Granger," he murmured in her ear – literally, she could feel his mouth brushing her skin, making her shiver – "and you to find out presently. First, I suggest we remove to somewhere a little more... _private_."

She let the implications of this sink slowly in. Her heart had started up again, but now it was going far too fast, thudding erratically like a runaway coach-and-four. He was too close, much too close..._ Oh god that scent... so... so damned... narcotizing... _ Her lips felt numb as she spoke. "How do I know you won't hurt me?"

Lucius smiled down at her. And made no answer.

Something exquisite fluttered inside her.

So. He _had_ something on her, did he?

Her blood surged through her body, swirling around its most sensitive points. For the first time in a month she felt as if she were coming _alive_, awakening from some deep, dull hibernation. She was in for a battle. A battle of wits. "Alright," she heard herself say. Bright sparks of light were flitting and dancing through her. She tingled everywhere. It was as if she had been _waiting_ for this moment for twenty-eight torturous days. "When?" she said. "Now?"

The smile deepened, the silver eyes glimmered. "Now."

…

It was an opulent and luxuriously-appointed reception room – Hermione would give it that – but really, the Slytherin-centric colour scheme bordered on gratuitous, and the overuse of serpent motifs in the soft furnishings was frankly vulgar. She sat perched on the edge of a green damask chaise-lounge, facing an oppositely-stationed Lucius, who lounged gracefully back on an oversized, green leather chesterfield.

Lucius was scrutinizing her impassively, and Hermione felt her cheeks glowing. She was dying to speak – well, to insult – but no way was she hazarding the opening gambit. She sat with her lips pressed tightly together, waiting.

"So..." he drawled at length, "it would seem that little-miss-Mudblood –"

"DON'T call me that!" she interjected furiously, but he ignored her and smoothly continued, "– that little-miss-Mudblood –_ darling_ of the Ministry, mistress of all she surveys – has been a very naughty little witch. Quite... insubordinate." He slanted one eyebrow, and gave her a significant smirk. "Tell me, my dear, did you _enjoy_ having a Pureblood wizard inside you? I'm fascinated to know... did you feel somehow... cleansed?"

Hermione leaped to her feet, wielding her wand in her clenched fist. "You _disgusting_ – you _utter_ – you _unmitigated_ –" she sputtered, trying to find a suitable word to describe the man.

Lucius merely crossed his booted legs and chuckled urbanely. "Oh, _do _cool your cauldron, Miss Granger, I beg you," he said lightly, making a directive gesture for her to sit back down. "You're so deplorably easy to pique, did you know that?"

Seething, but reluctant to prove him right, Hermione resumed her seat. "Just tell me what you want, Malfoy," she snarled, "before I hex those Pure-blood parts of which you are so proud right off."

He smiled at this, and Hermione was distinctly reminded of a tiger. A very large, white tiger. "Very well, Miss Granger, I shall cut to the proverbial chase. I believe that _these_,"– he reached into his robe and pulled out a scrap of lacy material – "belong to you."

_Well, would you look at that_, Hermione thought incredulously. _My knickers. What an abominably cliché piece of incrimination._

He tossed them onto her lap with a precise flick of his wrist. "I've had them independently tested and verified, of course."

"Of course," she replied, desperately fighting an overwhelming urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Or was it to burst into hysterical tears? She wasn't quite sure, and thankfully the feeling passed.

Again he reached into his robe, this time producing a small, sealed scroll. "Are you familiar with the archaic, though not obsolete, system of barter, my dear?"

"Yes," she gritted through clenched teeth.

"But of course you are," Lucius said, with mock-chagrin. "Forgive me, Miss Granger, for a moment I forgot what an insufferable little swot you are."

"The point, Malfoy," she huffed.

"The point – ah, yes. Well, my dear, I should like to engage in a barter with you."

"You mean a blackmail."

Lucius shrugged. "Call it whatever you please, provided I get what I want. This scroll," – he waved it at her – "of which I'm sure we _both_ know the contents, in return for... hmmm..." He paused, ostensibly giving the matter serious thought. Then, as if he had a sudden bright idea – "Ah! A place on the board should do nicely, I think."

She gawped at him. "You're not _allowed_ –"

"Not my problem, Miss Granger," he overrode her protestations.

"But it's _impossible_ –"

"Nothing should be impossible for so enterprising a witch as yourself," he replied silkily.

She stared at him, and was dismayed by the steeliness behind his silvery gaze. _He really means it, _she realized. _Shit. _

Hermione eyed the scroll, now resting in his lap. The jewels of his rings sparkled tauntingly as he lightly drummed his fingers upon the sealed paper. _So much for a battle of wits,_ she thought. _He's stitched me up like a kipper. _

She took a deep breath. "Fine," she muttered.

Lucius's smile widened rakishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your reply, Miss Granger. _What_ did you say?"

"I said _fine_!" she repeated loudly, wrathfully.

He clapped his hands sharply, once, then rubbed them together with exaggerated relish. "Good!" he said, sitting up straighter. "I'll have your word on that, if you please – oh, nothing too onerous, just a regular Debtor's Oath will suffice."

Gritting her teeth, Hermione performed the wandwork and grumblingly made her vow. _Great, _she thought, _now every single board meeting is going to be spent trying to ignore his detestable, gloating face... _

At the completion of the ritual, Lucius stood and presented her the scroll with a derisive flourish. Hermione immediately Incendio'd the roll of sealed paper, and then, flushing every invented shade of scarlet, she did the same to her knickers. Relief washed over her as she destroyed the last traces of her transgression – relief, but also something else. Something uncomfortably akin to... disappointment.

"I hope you realize, _Malfoy,_" – she said his name as if it tasted particularly unpleasant – "that once you're elected to the board I'm going to dedicate every waking moment to getting you expelled off it again."

Lucius's eyes glinted and his mouth curled at the corners. "I would expect nothing less from my little-miss-Mudblood nemesis."

Hermione prickled, but refused to rise to the bait. "Right. Well, I won't take up any more of your time," she said, more glumly than snarkily, making her way over to the huge, black-granite fireplace. "Your reflection might start getting jealous."

She was just about to take a handful of Floo powder when Lucius's unexpectedly-near voice her made her jump. He was standing right behind her, though she hadn't heard him follow her. "There was just one last thing, my dear," he murmured.

And before she could so much as twitch, let alone grab for her wand, Lucius had pulled her roughly backwards against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her and pinning her own to her sides. His silky hair spilled over her shoulder and his breath was hot on the bare skin of her neck as he spoke. "I forgot to mention that I don't intend to allow you to leave until I have fucked you senseless, Miss Granger. Quite senseless. You see, I've never heard anyone _squeal_ so delectably as you did, that night when I had you over my desk, disguised as my beloved wife. Your level of enthusiasm was truly... invigorating. Indeed, I've thought of little else over these last several weeks."

Hermione gasped. A flame had blazed up inside her at his touch, and was spreading like wildfire through her entire body, burning her up, melting her down. _Huh,_ she thought dizzily, disjointedly. _Well_ _it's nice to know I wasn't the only one..._

_..._

* * *

_Poor little Hermione! Don't you just feel so sorry for her? ... No? ...Me neither! XD __  
__WARNING: Smut, glorious smut in the next chapter, for sure! (Is that a promise, I hear you ask) ...__Please review! The more interest expressed, the quicker the update ;) ... yes, yes, that was an unabashed attempt at blackmail. What's a girl gotta do to get a review. Love'n'hugs til next time..._


	3. A Fox Is A Wolf Who Sends Flowers

_Hold onto your hats folks, we're in for a bumpy ride... yippee! Thanks again to Storywriter831 for her wisdom and reassurances (because it's a little daunting writing smut, even if you serve it in a pretty china cup with a squeeze of lemon and plenty of cream). Also, thanks soooo much to ALL who reviewed the last two chapters... this one's dedicated to you!_

_WARNING: general hot smuttiness and less-than-genteel language ahead. JK Rowling owns the characters... if only she knew all the shenanigans they get up to when she's not looking.  
ENJOY!_

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Part III

A Fox Is A Wolf Who Sends Flowers

...

Hermione wasn't exactly sure how it happened, or in what order it all occurred, but by the time she caught up mentally to what was happening to her physically, she had already been disarmed, gathered up, transferred and deposited onto the huge green chesterfield couch, and Lucius was standing over her, her own wand lightly balanced in his hands.

_How did he get that?_ she wondered hazily, _...and more to the point, what is he planning to do with it?_

She flinched reflexively when he pointed it at her, and the haziness receded somewhat as the reality of her position forced itself into focus. She was an unarmed muggle-born female, all alone with a very large, very dangerous Pureblood-supremacist, wielding a wand straight at her head. Not, perhaps, the wisest situation she'd ever got herself into.

Hermione wondered if she should be worried._ Probably,_ she thought. He did, after all, have quite a flinty gleam in his eye, and his expression was the polar opposite of reassuring. ...But she couldn't quite manage to fit "worry" in and around the deluge of desire which had inundated her completely, when he had pulled her against him and told her in plainest terms what he intended to do to her.

There was simply no room left for anything else.

"Where to begin..." Lucius murmured.

Hermione's heart thudded at the sound of his voice, so smooth and suave, but absolutely brimming with menacing self-control. His lips parted as he began to utter an incantation – but then he appeared to change his mind. She breathed a little easier as he lowered the wand. "No," he said softly – although she wasn't sure if he were addressing her or speaking to himself – "No, let's make things a little more interesting..." His mouth flicked upwards at one corner. "You're always harping on about witch empowerment, aren't you, my dear? So presumably you'll prefer to disrobe _without_ assistance." He paused for a moment, tapping the wand lightly against his fingertips, then raised his brows with mock-expectancy. "Well, Miss Granger? I'm waiting."

Hermione felt her cheeks reddening, and her mouth was suddenly very, very dry. He wanted her to – to strip? While he just stood there and watched?

"Can't we just – um –"

"No," he cut in.

"But I'd rather –"

"I may be a gentleman, Miss Granger," he said silkily. "But pray do not mistake me for a patient one."

Hermione grimaced. _You're no gentleman,_ she thought irritably – but none-the-less her fingers went to the buttons of her robe and she began, rather shakily, to unhook them.

She wished she was wearing something more attractive beneath the thick black garment, but when she had donned her work clothes this morning the last thing she had expected was to be stripping them off again under Lucius Malfoy's supercilious gaze. Although, admittedly, stranger things had happened.

Peeling off and discarding the outer layer, she darted a look up at the wizard, easily reading his deriding disapproval of her grey nylon pencil-skirt and shapeless white blouse. "They're work clothes, Malfoy," she snapped at him, getting hotter and grouchier by the second. "Not _haute couture_."

"No, they are assuredly not _that_," he replied, his voice as sneering as his expression.

He moved gracefully over to an oaken side-board and poured himself a glass of tawny liquid from a crystal decanter. She saw his wide shoulders moving beneath his own sharply-tailored robe as he lifted the glass to take an unhurried swig. "Remove your skirt," he instructed briefly.

She very nearly refused.

His high-handed arrogance was really starting to gall her, and that all-consuming desire was fast abating under his mocking derision. ...But then she thought of his – his – a-and how she had dreamed of it for a whole agonizing month... and she simply couldn't help herself.

Hermione perched on the edge of the couch and quickly, almost angrily, tugged off her shoes, then fumbled with the side-zipper of her skirt. She wriggled the material over her hips, sliding it past her knees, down to her ankles, and then kicked the garment inelegantly off. She was fairly certain this was the most clumsy, awkward strip-tease ever to have been performed in the whole history of the world.

Lucius moved back over to her, and she could feel his gaze raking her from top to toe. She sat, knees pressed together, arms crossed self-consciously, awaiting his next instruction. "My dear girl," he finally spoke, and his voice fairly dripped with disdain, "do you buy everything in packs of twelve?"

Hermione stared up at him, confused, then her face went from scarlet to vermilion as she realized. Her knickers. They were exactly the same as the ones she had just Incendio'd.

"They were buy one, get one half-price," she blurted out defensively, then went even redder at what she had just said. Furious and flustered, she grabbed her bunched-up, wrong-side-out skirt from the floor and began – unsuccessfully – to wrestle herself back into it. "Don't you _dare_ sneer at me, Malfoy," she spat acidly, her eyes prickling hotly, "– some of us are too busy with _actual careers_ to worry about the stupid things that people with _large gaps_ in their diaries – _aaagh!_" She shrieked as Lucius suddenly grabbed her leg and jerked it out from under her, tumbling her backwards onto the chesterfield.

Still smarting from his taunt, Hermione kicked viciously out at him, only narrowly missing his crotch. Lucius's mocking smile immediately disappeared – _HAH! That wiped his smirk off!_ she thought manically – and she heard him growl as his eyes blazed with real anger. He lunged for her, momentarily grappling with her flailing limbs, then flipped her roughly face down into the leather squabs. She cried out as his knee shoved sharply into her back, and his hands gripped her wrists tightly – painfully – together behind her. "You will apologize for that, Mudblood," he snarled in her ear.

"Sod off, you _arsehole!_" she cried out irately, her voice muffled by the couch.

He applied more crushing force to her wrists, making her yelp. "Apologize!" he demanded again.

She managed to twist her face to one side and shouted at him, "I'D RATHER LICK FLUBBERWORM MUCUS OFF THE FLOOR!"

There was a pause, and then the pressure on her back and wrists relented, and she was somewhat surprised to hear Lucius chuckle. He pulled her back over to face him, and, grasping her chin with one large, jewelled hand, he leaned closely over her. "...That could easily be arranged, Miss Granger," he drawled softly, his mouth bare inches from hers.

Hermione glared up at him, chest heaving, wild-haired and crimson-faced. "You're a pig," she hissed, wriggling futilely against him.

The corners of his mouth curled. "And you are an inveterate little savage of a Mudbl –"

_CRACK!_ Hermione's hand whipped across his cheek, hard enough to make her palm burn, and causing Lucius's head to jerk a little to one side.

...The sound seemed to reverberate endlessly around the suddenly-much-too-silent room.

Lucius's jaw clenched, and Hermione felt every muscle in his body tensing along her. She could see the red hand-print on his pale face, and his eyes were hard and glittering dangerously. Her own eyes widened as, for one fearful moment, she really thought he might return the hit...

A strained, smouldering tension stretched between them, taut and sparking and humming with something like rage, something like desire...

And then it simply snapped – and his lips were crushed upon hers, his tongue was plunging and twisting inside her mouth, her own frantically twining and pushing back – and they were locked together in a fervent, furious exchange of lust and hatred – but the hatred was heady, and only made the lust hotter, too hot, _unbearably_ hot... She arched up to him, moaning, almost despairing with impossible need.

Suddenly grasping her wrists, Lucius swiftly hauled her up to stand, then, gripping the panels of her blouse in his fists, he rent them apart, scattering little plastic buttons everywhere. With a few savage movements he tore the garment and everything beneath it entirely away from her body, until she stood before him in only her lacy knickers, flushed and panting from their recent frenzied tussle, and trembling with anticipation for what must surely follow.

His gaze burned a lingering trail over her bare curves, and Hermione shivered deliciously at the undisguised, heated covetousness of his expression.

She squeaked as Lucius abruptly twirled her around, pulling her down backwards so she landed in his lap, her back pressed to his hard chest. His right arm tightly braced her midriff, his left hand encircled her throat, so she lay helplessly pinioned and sprawled against him, her head forcibly tilted back to rest in the crook of his shoulder. With a slight adjustment he had her legs splayed wide, draped on either side of his, and his hand slid downwards to dance along the inner edge of her knickers. "Now then, little savage," he growled softly, tugging the lacy panel aside, "let's hear you beg for me in your own voice."

Her whole body convulsed as Lucius's fingers found their mark, but his hold on her throat prevented her from doing anything but squirm and cry out as he began to caress her exposed seam. "Oh my fffu – oh _god_," she gasped, every remnant of residual rage evaporating at the first skillful stroke.

Pleasure, undiluted pleasure began to soak through her, melting her insides to absolute mush, shutting down every part of her brain that wasn't directly linked to sensation. _How is he so good?_ she vaguely wondered._ How can a man so thoroughly bad, be so thoroughly good at this?_ He seemed to be playing her like she was an instrument: the knuckle of his thumb pressed against her sensitive nub, his index finger stroking up and down her cleft, his two longest fingers pushing up inside her throbbing, wet entrance.

"Do you like that, little witch?" he spoke in her ear. "Do you want more?"

"Mmmyesss..."

"Say 'please', Miss Granger."

"Please... _please_, Lucius... _oh_ _please_..." Hermione mewled incoherently as he began to increase the pressure and speed... She could feel his bulging hardness pressing up beneath her, and it made her almost wild with want – _ye gods_, but she wanted him _in_ her again – she wanted that unremitting, ruthless, pleasure-pain – to be crammed with too much, forced to take _more_ – to forget everything and simply _feel feel feel_...

Her arms raised behind her to clutch at his shoulders and the tips of her fingers met with his long hair. It was exquisitely silky, and only fuelled her desire for him to further heights. She was nearing the brink, already over-aroused from weeks of pent-up frustration, and the incredible sensations were converging and building into something inescapable, uncontainable – and then Lucius suddenly pressed his mouth against her ear, his warm tongue flickered into its sensitive center, and he whispered harshly, "Come for me, witch,"– and what could she do but obey?

She cried out, her spine arching, her hands clenched in his hair. She wanted desperately to wrench herself forwards, to meet the cresting ecstasy head-on, but he continued to restrain her with his collaring hold, forcing her to accept the pleasure as he chose to dispense it: leisurely, tormentingly... "_Fuck!_ Oh god, Lucius! _Yessssss!_" she practically wailed as he brought her, shuddering and writhing, to dizzying completion.

She collapsed limply in his arms, dissolved in pleasure, trembling uncontrollably. "Th-thank-you," she stammered, wondering giddily how she had gone from slapping him to thanking him in the space of just a few minutes.

"Oh, I certainly expect you to, my dear," Lucius replied drily.

He lifted her easily off him and she slumped back against the back of the seat, in an enjoyably spinning stupor.

Lucius stood up and calmly removed his robe and jacket, fastidiously folding them over the back of the couch. Then, deliberately placing his booted feet on either side of her bare ones, he stationed himself in front of her – and suddenly, with wonderful clarity, she realized exactly _how_ she would be thanking him...

She watched, mesmerized, as his hands went to the front of his immaculately-pressed trousers and unloosed his belt and flies, lowering his waistband. Hermione sat up, suddenly very much alert (and somewhat alarmed) as he freed himself from the expensive material. _Godric's galoshes!_ she thought wildly, her eyes utterly riveted on his formidable rigidity, _– no wonder it hurt so much!_ – And then something triggered inside her brain, like the blinding spark of a shorting light-bulb, and she was already sliding off the seat to her knees, and leaning forwards to wrap her hands and lips around his girth – because, for the first time in her not-very-experienced life, she simply _wanted_ to...

Willingly – _eagerly_, she lapped and licked and tasted him, her tongue laving every inch of him, then she tried taking as much as she could manage to the back of her throat, until she nearly gagged around his constricting size.

"Look at me," said Lucius, his usually-velvet voice slightly strained and hoarse. Hermione did so, and an extra quiver stole through her as her eyes connected with his glinting silver ones. A slow smile curved his lips. "What a delightful prospect you present, Miss Granger," he said, gazing down at her. "Every time I'm forced to sit through one of your tiresome conference lectures, I shall fondly reminisce upon the moment your mouth was wholly obstructed by my cock."

She should have been riled by his speech, but she just didn't care anymore – she was too far gone, drunk on his heady taste, hopelessly high on pure lust – and anyway, for all his mocking words, she could see he was becoming flushed, his eyes were glazing, his breath was quickening... oh, yes, she was getting to him, alright...

Suddenly Lucius grasped her hair and pulled her away from him. "Enough, enough!" he ground out hoarsely. "I've got to fuck you, or be damned."

He dragged her up and all-but threw her along the chesterfield, wrenching her legs apart and settling himself heavily between them. He paused momentarily to hook her knee over his left arm, tilting her hips up to gain deepest access, and used his right hand to guide himself against her slick entrance. She moaned at the sensation of his heavy member centering upon her core as he aligned himself to her – and then his eyes met hers, his teeth bared slightly, and with a sudden lunge he slammed himself into her, filling her to the hilt.

Hermione choked out a breathless, strangled yelp.

She barely registered his crushing weight, or the fact her hair was snagged on one of his cuff-links, or that his belt-buckle was stabbing her thigh – these discomforts were peripheral and inconsequential – the only reality was _him_, inside her... and a frightening realization that this time – _this_ time, the pain might win out against pleasure. Too late, it occurred to her that the last time he had taken her she had been borrowing someone-else's body, someone-else's framework – someone who had had over twenty years to adapt herself to him...

Her nails clawed into his shoulders, and she clutched onto him as if to keep from drowning, as Lucius drew back and began to thrust powerfully into her, again, and again, and again... and then, just when she thought her tolerance threshold must surely break, he bent down to catch her lips with his – his tongue plunged deeply in her mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his pounding appendage – and Hermione found herself relaxing, _opening_, and she accepted him fully into her. Her legs wrapped around Lucius's lower back, her hips lifted to meet his next thrust, and then she was born aloft by a vortex of surging, glittering pleasure, spinning her upwards, ever upwards towards a plateau of blissful ecstasy...

"Yes!" she hissed fiercely, "Yes, _yes_, _Lucius_!" His eyes fixed on her lips, wide open, calling out his name, and she heard him growling deep in his throat as she came, came hard, around him.

He rode her long and hard, his stamina and strength such that she crested three more times and lay quivering beneath him, almost comatose with satiation, before he finally began to build towards his own climax. Finally she felt his muscles tauten, and Lucius suddenly pushed himself up so he was half-kneeling, half-standing: his left knee shoved behind her thigh, his right leg extended to the floor, both hands braced on the arm of the couch above her head, and he hammered himself into her faster, faster, harder, harder...

And then with a final surge forwards Lucius emitted a rasping groan; Hermione felt the deep, hot thickness of his essence filling and coating her, and it triggered her to one last, final release, this one coiling languidly through her, making her whimper and shudder in exhausted delirium.

Lucius fell heavily upon her, his breath ragged in her ear, strands of his long hair clinging to her sweaty cheek and temple.

Still fused deeply within her, he brought his arms around her shoulders and gathered her closely against him, and for a moment Hermione felt as if he were cradling her in a passionate lover's embrace... but then gradually she became aware of a torrent of rasping words pouring into her ear, and she realized he was tauntingly averring his victory over her, declaring his mastery of her, exulting in her surrender...

Hermione closed her eyes, breathed his scent deeply in, and tuned out his words.

Words were just ..._words_, and at this moment – spent, soporific and saturated with pleasure – she just couldn't care less about them.

Some day she would make him eat them.

But for now she lay still and silent, entwined in her enemy's arms, and smiled into his shoulder.

...

* * *

_Phew! Well that was fun to write! I'm all tuckered out now. Thanks for reading, and pretty please leave__ a review... If you do,_ I might be inspired to write some more ;)


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